No Stronger Souls Exist
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: October the twelfth is a day for saying things that matter. This year, it's John and Lestrade's turn.


_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Special thanks to ImpishTubist for having read this over for me, and for prompting "John and Lestrade kissing in the rain."_

_A/N: Today, October 12, is National Coming Out Day in the United Kingdom. In other countries, it falls on October 11._

* * *

><p>Sighing, John drops his head to the rough wood of the kitchen table, then rolls it sideways so that he can squint at his watch without sitting back up.<p>

_0:04_, the numbers say when he presses the button to light them up. _0:04_. _0:04_. _0:05_.

Still October the twelfth, then. And nearly twenty-four hours of it left.

Oh, he knows the date carries no inherent obligation. He knows there's no real reason he should have to do this today, as opposed to any other day, or not at all. But Greg Lestrade is special, and what they have is special, and he –

Well, sooner or later, someone besides Sherlock is going to notice.

It's not that, though. He _wants_ to do this. Lestrade deserves it, and he does, too. It's just that – he's a bit of a latecomer, isn't he?

_Bet you never saw _this_ coming_, he thinks, but the wry smile drops from his face as he remembers the first time he used those words.

Heaving yet another sigh, he straightens and picks up the phone. It's after midnight, but Harry will still be awake.

And oh, she's going to laugh at him.

* * *

><p>Despite his late night (morning), he's still up and out of bed by six o'clock. He hasn't been able to sleep in since Afghanistan; it's one of those things that got lost somewhere between Kandahar and home.<p>

When he says things like that, Lestrade pulls him in close and rests his cheek against John's hair and they sit, silent, breathing, until John remembers that not everything was lost and pulls Lestrade down for a kiss that says more than any words could.

He's alone in 221B today, though. He's not sure where Sherlock might be, but he suspects he's gone to Barts, based on the row of severed fingers adorning the dining table, with several noticeable gaps. Briefly, he pities Molly Hooper, who is going to have to deal with whatever mad experiment his flatmate has planned.

Sherlock, he thinks, could have at least left him space to eat breakfast.

A cup of tea brings it all back to him, his midnight conversation with Harry, her bright peal of laughter (yes, he'd known it was coming, but _still_ – did she have to find it _so_ amusing?), her comments both supportive and good-naturedly mocking. She has her flaws, he knows; the drinking makes it hard, sometimes, to like her, though he dutifully loves her… but in the end, she's still his big sister, and life – especially when it's confusing like this – is better with her than without her.

Still, he's almost lucky she's the only family he's got. He'd hate to have to go through that conversation with his _parents_.

* * *

><p>Sherlock breezes in around midday, sees John at the dining table, writing a blog entry with the fingers pushed a little to one side to accommodate the laptop, and asks, "Don't you have somewhere productive to be?"<p>

"_I_ consider this productive," John points out, "and the Yarders seem to agree."

Sherlock makes a face at that, and he considers it a win.

"What about Lestrade? Shouldn't you be off ruining _his_ experiments?"

From day one, Sherlock has known about John and Lestrade. Actually, he claims he knew long before either of them, and neither of them is particularly inclined to disagree – especially as it seems it was so obvious in retrospect. When even _Sherlock Holmes_ is asking why it took so long, perhaps it's time to admit you're a little more oblivious to the signals than you might have thought you were.

"Yes, Sherlock," John says, shaking his head. "I'll just find his secret laboratory and put lemon juice in all his bacterial cultures, shall I? We're not all _you_, you know."

"I was speaking euphemistically."

"Were you? With you, it's impossible to tell."

He does ring Lestrade, though, and they agree to meet up after work. Not that the detective inspector wouldn't have ended up at Baker Street sometime during the course of the evening anyway.

* * *

><p>It's a damp, grey day, the kind where fog and rain mix on the windowpanes and run in rivulets down to the sills; the kind where old, creaking flats like 221B are no longer equal to the task of perfect dryness and begin to permit small, subtle leaks to wind down their walls; the kind where Sherlock's coat is not just an affectation, but a necessity.<p>

Radio 4 says to expect it to get worse before it gets better, and John hopes Lestrade hasn't taken his motorbike to work today. It's bad enough on pea-soup-foggy London days, but it's another thing altogether on _this_ sort of day, where the rain increases steadily by the hour, drumming on rooftops and setting a slow, dreary rhythm for the city.

The tapping of the keys matches the raindrops as he writes a second blog entry, this one to save for publishing sometime when he hasn't got anything else to say. Technically, that's never true – living with Sherlock, there's _always_ something to say; it's usually more that he _can't_ say what he and his insane flatmate have been up to (at least not without being arrested), and so he has to come up with something innocuous to post in place of the truth.

He wants to sign into his blog, to see the comments on his latest entry – the entry Harry will have been expecting since their talk – but at the same time, he's afraid to look. He knows the Yard read his blog (and he was very, _very_ careful to ensure he had Lestrade's permission before saying anything), and he knows that a number of his old Army compatriots do as well.

He wonders if he'll still be able to call all of them 'friends' after this.

He hopes so, he really, _really_ does, but… the reality is, people are funny sometimes.

He doesn't look at his blog comments.

* * *

><p>The nice thing about doing this today is that he knows he's not alone in it. All over the country, there are people going, "oh, it's the twelfth… thank God." Or, equally likely, "shit shit shit, it's the twelfth, oh, God, how do I do this?"<p>

He's sort of in the middle. Somewhere along the lines of, "oh, that's today. I suppose I'd better, then."

Sherlock would call this ridiculous – wouldn't even understand why he wants to do it, and especially not why he'd choose to do it on a date that someone, somewhere has for some completely unknown reason decided holds significance.

To be honest, John doesn't entirely understand either. Not the why of doing it – the _why_ is obvious. But today? He doesn't really know. It just seemed right. And it was coming up anyway, and he and Lestrade have been partners for long enough now that they make each other brave, and…

Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? They're doing it.

It might as well be today.

At least he's got company.

* * *

><p>The rain's gotten rather a lot worse, and John really wants to place another call to the Yard to tell Lestrade that under no circumstances is he to walk or take the bike to Baker Street. He knows that if he doesn't say something, Lestrade will arrive soaked to the bone and insist, through chattering teeth, that he's fine, it's fine, he doesn't mind at all. That's just how he is. Idiot.<p>

But he doesn't phone again, because he's too nervous to ask how things are going. Has Lestrade said anything to anyone yet? How did it go over? Is it going to cause problems? Will John have to stop showing up at crime scenes with Sherlock? Sherlock won't like that at all. Not that he'll listen, not that he'll agree to leave –

He must be going mad. He hasn't even _talked_ to Lestrade yet. Everything's going to be _fine_.

There's a flash and a _bang_ from Sherlock's room and suddenly John can't see anything but spots, can't hear anything but a steady D sharp ringing in his ears.

When his vision clears, Sherlock is standing in the living room and his silk shirt is marred with burns and what looks like bits of melted plastic. A quick once-over reassures John that Sherlock hasn't managed to damage himself in any significant way, so he just shrugs and goes back to what he was reading.

Everything's going to be fine.

* * *

><p>Five o'clock, and John's drumming his fingers anxiously on the edge of his chair, wondering if Lestrade's off work yet, wondering if it's been a good day or a bad one, a good decision they've made or a bad one. Wondering what people have said to him, wondering if he'll need to be gentle, to erase the impressions the words have made. Wondering if he can possibly be <em>enough<em> to erase the things that might have been said. Wondering and hoping, all the while, that none of it will be necessary.

He types out a text. _Done for the day?_ Looks at it for a moment, adds, _Will I see you soon?_

The 'delete' button is right next to the 'send' button, and John is very careful to press the right one when he erases the message unsent.

The rain picks up.

* * *

><p>John's mobile buzzes at a quarter to six. He grabs for it, faster than is dignified or reasonable, and flips it open to find a text.<p>

_Will you come down?_

He doesn't know why Lestrade won't just come up, come inside, get out of the rain, but he's down the steps and out the front door before it occurs to him to wonder. And it's good, oh, so, so _good_ to see the man standing outside on the pavement, rain slicking down the scruff of hair that usually disobeys all attempts at combing, hands clasped behind his back as he looks up and down the street.

John touches his shoulder and Lestrade turns, sees him, and wraps him tightly in his arms. It doesn't matter that they're in the middle of the street, doesn't matter that John hasn't got a coat on and the water's trickling down the back of his neck and soaking through his thin cotton shirt. Lestrade's grip is warm and solid and comforting, and John doesn't care where they are as long as he never lets go.

He finally gathers the courage to whisper, "Was it all right?" and Lestrade pulls back just far enough to look at him.

"Of course it was," he says wonderingly. "This was for us. This is _ours_. And we're always all right."

And they kiss, there on the pavement in the rain, and the passers-by move around them, and the rain runs down Lestrade's hair and into John's, and the droplets fall from their lashes into the space between them and are caught on warm skin, tasted on lips and tongues that meet and meld.

It's John who leans away first, pushes the hair back from Lestrade's forehead and roughs it up so that they're both showered with tiny drops. "I love you," he says, so softly there's no sound at all, "I love you. I love you."

He's been so _scared_.

"I know," Lestrade whispers in reply, pulling John back and gripping him so tightly they're left breathless. He drops kisses into the wet hair, grateful for the opportunity to look away for a moment, scrub the back of one hand across his eyes and convince himself that it's just rain on his face, nothing else. "I know, I love you, too."

They've never said it before. Somehow, it seems fitting that _that_ should be today as well.

John smiles against the sodden fabric of Lestrade's coat.

October the twelfth. It's a day for saying things that matter, and they have. All of the things they've said today (a few conversations, a few e-mails, one blog entry) matter, and because of them, everything in their lives has changed just a little. But that's not the most important thing.

"I love you," he says, just one more time.

_This_ is all that matters.


End file.
